


semantic networks

by agivise



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, fr tho folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18642121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agivise/pseuds/agivise
Summary: all you want to do is lay down for a while and breathe.so you lay down, right on the floor, and breathe.





	semantic networks

**Author's Note:**

> big and very genuine warning for this one, folks. i know my stuff can get into mental health/mental illness stuff, but this one gets especially into disordered eating. even if it's not particularly graphic, it's a major point. read only if you're comfortable doing so. however, if you know my writing, you know i try my best to avoid both glorification and gravitas, so if either of those are your concerns, do know i always handle them to the best of my ability, and do my best to write what i know.
> 
> today's song recs: on the sun by moon hooch and catahoula man by generationals. both very good songs give em a listen

you drag yourself from the bathroom floor with a wince and a long, disinterested look at the plain white paint of the wall.

the sink water won’t get any colder than room temperature, and your palms only warm it more, but anything’s better than the bitter rot coating your tongue, the faint gritty feeling on the roof of your mouth, the peppery ache at the back of your throat. you spit the tap water back into the sink basin. scrub beneath your nails until they bleed, scrub the cold sweat from the nape of your neck, scrub the stomach acid from the backs of your teeth. the enamel is worn enough as is.

the water from your hands drips down to your wrists, staining the cuffs of your shirt.

daniel’s here. he’s leaning against the door frame with a glass of ice water, an mit sweatshirt, and a frown. might have just strolled up, might have been standing there the whole time, definitely had to have walked on in at some point. not that you care. you’re not in the mood for full sentences right now, let alone whatever sickeningly earnest conversation you’re certain he’ll try to spark here. you want to berate him, want shout petulant, vicious names at him, want him to _hate_ you right now, want him to go out and take a walk and check his fucking email because you _always_ go too far.

right now, though, your chest hurts from the retching, and all you want to do is lay down for a while and breathe.

so you lay down, right on the floor, and breathe.

“sick, sir?” he asks.

you don’t give him the satisfaction of shaking your head. he can guess your glares well enough to know it’s a no, even if you’re just glaring at the chipped paint instead of him.

he doesn’t even bother giving you _that_ look, that exaggerated grimace he gives each time he thinks you’re lying. doesn’t shake his head or try to call you out on it. just stands and watches you for a bit, that pitiful little crinkle of his brow he’s barely trying to hide, like he’s trying to egg you into a response.

“so. sick,” he decides. he doesn’t offer you the water.

“not sick,” you clarify. “bad day. they happen. been a while.”

there’s a long, long stretch where neither of you say or do much at all. you sit upright, chin propped on the heel of your hand, waiting for him to go away so you can lay down again.

he thinks. he doesn’t sit next to you. he takes a sip of his water.

“didn’t know you’re bulimic,” he finally settles on. (and just like that, you’re back to wanting to break his jaw.)

“ _was,_ ” you correct with a grimace, and you’re not really sure why you give that up without a fight. he doesn’t have the fucking right to make accusations like that. certainly doesn’t have the right to read between the lines that quickly.

daniel tries and fails to hide his… whatever emotion that is. frustration. disappointment. he forces a stiff nod.

you breathe. the room smells like peroxide. “i’m fine. fine doesn’t require _no bad days._ this, here, is a bad day.”

he walks out of the bathroom and doesn’t walk back in. you hear the cluttering and clambering that has become so characteristic of him ruining the meticulous organization of your apartment. not for the first time, you regret giving him a key. he does get along well with your doorman, though. probably would’ve gotten in without it.

after a couple minutes, maybe eight, you find him in the kitchen, a saucepan with some shallow water on the stovetop, and an open packet of ramen beside it.

“not gonna eat that, you know,” you warn.

he sighs. points to a seat at the kitchen island. you don’t take it. he drops in the block of noodles, the broth packet, and a tablespoon and a half of butter. it cooks in three minutes. he gestures at it vaguely and leaves to sprawl himself along the length of your couch. scrolls through twitter. you pointedly ignore him. it takes no more than forty seconds for him to get frustrated again.

“do i look like i give the slightest shit about your feelings right now? do i look like your fucking therapist? get over yourself. eat the fucking soup.”

(“sir,” he adds through gritted teeth. an afterthought, or muscle memory.)

you flip him off and pour half of it into a coffee mug. after a moment’s hesitation, you grab one of your cheaper forks, one of the ones that won’t get too hot sitting in the broth, and glare at him until he moves his feet to let you sit beside him.

you eat it slowly. it tastes like nothing. he uses your legs as a footrest and goes back to staring at his phone. he’s playing cat collector, probably. you roll your eyes, but he’s too busy collecting cats to notice.

“why the butter?”

he looks up from his phone. “hmm?”

“what inspired it?”

“no, i mean i literally didn’t hear what you said.” he waves his phone screen at you. yep. cat collector. nerd loser.

“you added butter to the ramen.”

“oh. that.”

“yeah. that.”

“a hundred and fifty.” he glances over at the saucepan, still half full. looks right back at his phone. deliberately avoids looking at you. “oh, great, seventy-five.”

you squint at him.

he shrugs. “hundred and fifty calories, in a tablespoon and a half of butter. maxwell forgets to eat a lot. not an eating disorder, just spacey, you know how she gets. adds butter to make up for lost calories. the broth goes down easy on an empty stomach.”

“good to know.”

“don’t make it a habit. what’s that thing er docs always say when patients leave? _i hope i never see you again_?”

“that doesn’t m—”

“you get the point, sir.”

and you do.

“you look like shit,” he kindly informs you.

“thanks,” you say.

“i don’t mean in general, i mean today. you look healthy, except for the fact that you look like you just casually drowned yourself in the hudson bay.”

“bad day,” you repeat. “i keep it together ninety-nine times out of a hundred. this is the hundredth.”

stares riiight back at his phone. “yeah, that’s kinda exactly what i just said.”

“at least i don’t look like i just cannonballed into a chimney flue. really, jacobi, how do you always manage to have ashes somewhere on your face?”

he swipes his thumb across his jaw, only managing to smudge the cinders further across his skin. “i think, in another life, i would’ve made a great firefighter.”

“firefighters have a disproportionately high rate of arson convictions.”

“my point exactly.” he crosses his arms. “oh, also.”

“what?”

“can i borrow your laptop?”

“abso- _lutely_ not. _really,_ jacobi.”

“but mine’s — ugh, c’mon, please?”

“what happened to yours? you remember — your very expensive _goddard-issued_ laptop?”

“apparently the motherboard ‘needs all its wires’ to ‘function’. whatever the hell that means.”

“and maxwell? she’s suddenly incapable of basic computer repair?”

“she’s... working on it.”

“m-hm. what’d it cost ya’?”

he pouts. “the good lab chair.”

“the only one with all its wheels?”

more pouting. “yep.”

“you fucked that negotiation up big-time.”

he grins. “wanna help me sabotage the chair?”

“while she still has your laptop hostage?”

“i — y’know — well — _shit._ ”

“didn’t think of that, did you?”

“whatever.”

you’re both quiet for a while. not pensive, just unchatty. he eventually gives up on the conversation and walks back to the front door. thank god for that, too. the last thing your mental state needs at its rock bottom is positive reinforcement.

“and, kepler? not to intrude, but…”

you grimace. there go the blessedly shallow words. “yes, jacobi?”

“i do _super_ need that laptop.”

you shut the door in his face without blinking. he laughs from behind it and walks away. then, and only then, do you let yourself smile.

you feel like hell.

you just keep smiling and smiling. god, you feel like _hell._

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments mean the world, and hey,  
> thanks


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